I swallowed.
“I miss you,” she added.
That admission made my chest tense.
“I miss you too.”
“You've been gone a long time, Channy,” she said, not accusing, but honest.
“I know.”
She shifted gently, giving me room to breathe. “Your nieces would love being around Genny. They all love to dance and can be at the studio with me.”
I smiled faintly. “Are you still teaching?”
“Every day. Keeps me sane.”
I could picture it. The music, the mirrors, the way she moved with purpose, the way the girls watched her like she was something steady. It was always funny to me that Kenya had an engineering degree but chose to teach dance instead.
“They could grow up together,” she said. “Be around family. You and I can rebuild and start building something that actually feels like home.”
The word stayed with me.
“I don’t even live there anymore,” I said.
“So?” she replied easily. “You can.”
I let out a slow breath.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“You start by coming back,” she said. “Everything else, you figure out after.”
It sounded simple when she said it.
“I don’t need details,” she added. “I don’t need explanations. I just want you around again.”
I nodded slowly, even though she couldn’t see me.
“Okay,” I said.
It wasn’t a full plan. It wasn’t a full commitment. But it was something.
After we hung up, I sat there a little longer, the quiet no longer pressing against me the same way.
The decision didn’t feel big when I made it.
It didn’t come with a moment of clarity or some overwhelming sense that everything was about to change. It was quieter than that. More practical. I went home, sat at the kitchen table with my laptop, and started searching.
Crestwood.
Open positions.
District Attorney’s Office.
There it was.
Lead Prosecutor.
